quickly noticed a couple of irregularities, such as the hoop earrings belonging to one barista ("She shouldn't be allowed to wear those") and the lack of any ambient music or CDs for purchase. (Simon has obtained a copy of the employees' man- ual, and is contemplating applying for a summer job.) The store was busy and cramped-too cramped, he thought- and lacked the usual niceties like uphol- stered furniture. The dinginess struck him as more than coincidence. ''It's a clas- sic American story," he said. "African- Americans get less of everything." Simon and a guest each ordered reg- ular coffees, size Grande. All the tables were occupied, so they waited by the milk dispensers until a man in overalls sitting near the window got up and, in apparent violation of Starbucksian et- iquette, approached. "There's a chair right here, and a chair right there," the man said, pointing at a couple of empty seats about ten feet apart. "Come on, it's a community thing." Maybe it was a corner bar, after alL Simon took a seat by an elderly woman and a younger one. "I don't actually know very much about coffee," he con- fessed, glancing at the menu of spe- cialty drinks on the walL "I've ordered a mocha Frappuccino before, and hot chocolate. But most of this stuff just d " soun s gross. As he sat, and only occasionally sipped, Simon flipped through a com- position book, where he records his Starbucks data. Unlike the man in overalls, Simon prefers not to approach strangers while in Starbucks ("It's a bi- ased sample"), so, to pass the time, he often counts customers. On one page, from a stop in Singapore, he'd noted forty-eight people between 2:22 P.M. and 3:40 P.M.; all but six stayed and sat. In downtown Philly, by contrast, he saw forty-four in a twenty-one- minute span, thirty-three of whom or- dered their drinks to go. Simon has a number of Starbucks in- formants, such as his best friend's niece, a twelve-year-old in Brooklyn Heights. "She calls it Flirtbucks," he said. "She doesn't drink coffee-she's afraid it'll stunt her growth-but boys try to impress her by drinking coffee drinks." In Brooklyn Heights, apparently, it is cool to go to Starbucks if you are eleven or twelve, but not once you turn fourteen. "Whereas 28 THE NEW YORKER, JANUARY 9, 2006 along the Main Line near Philadelphia, it remains hip until about age twenty," Simon said. Back at the Harlem branch, a man gestured toward a plastic bag full of electronics on the floor. "Can I in- terest you in some headphones?" he asked. Simon declined, and pulled out his computer. He demonstrated that access to Starbucks.com is free, whereas IHateStarbucks.com, say, and Star- bucksGossip.com require a T -Mobile account. Aficionados of the latter Web site may be aware of the existence of Winter, another man with a special interest in Starbucks. Winter aims to visit every Starbucks in the world, a feat that does not interest Simon. (Winter's record of twenty-nine Star- bucks visited in one day surpasses Si- mon's sixteen.) "They open, like, three to four stores a day," he said. "To me it just seems like, what's the guy-is it Sisyphus?-who's pushing the rock up the hill?" Simon has a twenty-minute rule of thumb: if you stay at Starbucks twenty minutes or less, you're drinking; more than twenty minutes, you're working. After an hour or so, he excused him- self to visit the restroom, which he later deemed unimpressive. ("The mirror cost, like, $2.99.") His cup remained about half full. -Ben McGrath THE PICTURE5 LUNCH WITH TOMMY LEE 4\l l 1 C "'I v. l - --1-'.. T ommy Lee Jones, actor, producer, and first-time big-screen director, was having lunch the other day at The Players club, in Gramercy Park. Jones appears in his new movie, "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada," as a gray-bearded, sun-fried Texas rancher named Pete. He wears scuffed boots and dirty jeans. He speaks Spanish as well as English. He plays the loyal friend of an illegal Mexican immigrant who is mys- teriously murdered. Now out of charac- ter, Jones, clad in dark Prada and Her- mès, looked clean-shaven and barbered. He chose to sit downstairs, in the Grill Room, near an old pool table and a huge fireplace. Jones pressed his large hands flat against his cheekbones. "It's been a rough six weeks, travelling with the film. We've been to France, Toronto, and Morelia, in Mexico. In Japan, I took three days for myself, to go to Kyoto, one of my favorite cities in all the world. Then to New York, to talk to journalists, I guess we call them." He grinned and held it. "I went to an inter- ,//' " t ' "" 'fi ..., 48 <,: r/ ';l .í. # : i! . : " '. , ,'I ,'/, !, : ,fé/ f; :: L ' . '. / . I, f ,,/' /::{- .;/' '. 'I'" I ,j .. /,1:. //, ;,.-.' "' , '1'/""" '- .-."," '. .: ,' . .'?' --- ,:: \ ,,( / . ' . '. , /" .' Or' ( I} ktc1 '1\ n' \ I ',,"" Tommy LeeJones view with Charlie Rose," he said. "You go in there, and it's all dark, except for the light directed on the table. It looked very much like an execution chamber." He took a sip of the Bloody Mary he had ordered. "I'm happy to be here," he said. "The main thing is, I feel at home in New York. It's open-minded and openhearted." A former president of The Play- ers, the British actor Michael Allin- son, who is well remembered as the imposing Rolls-Royce passenger in the Grey Poupon commercials, came over, bowed, and held out a formal hand to Jones. "Absolutely delighted to see you," he said, with royal British diction. "Thank you, sir," Jones said, shak- ing the hand. "And you've just-?" Allinson said. "Finished a new film," Jones said. Allinson looked overcome. "Oh, how wonderful!" he said. He bowed again. "I must see it." Jones's wife, Dawn, was the still pho- tographer for the movie. His fourteen-